Of Kings and Queens
by Willow in Winter
Summary: Alistair and a Lady Cousland celebrate their wedding night. Sweet and smutty. First attempt at fanfic! Alistair POV. Oneshot.


I love this game so much I just had to try writing something. First fanfic and attempt at smut. Comments are very welcome. Enjoy!

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Alistair paced around the chamber, watching the ridiculously large bed out of the corner of his eye, as if it might attack him at any moment. He was starting to sweat under the golden ceremonial armor. It lay heavy across his shoulders. Why he had to wear such a cumbersome thing to a _wedding_ was beyond him.

Wedding. _His_ wedding. He couldn't help grinning at the thought. At the Landsmeet he had been resigned to the idea of becoming king. It was his duty, and he would have hated to see the power-hungry Anora take the throne. But when Miriel stood over Loghain's headless body and looked into his eyes and said that he would be king, and that she would stand beside him as queen, it was one of the happiest moments of his life. It didn't matter that they had yet to kill the Archdemon and end the Blight, because she would be there beside him through all of that and after, Maker willing. When she had pulled him off to the side after the nobles had dispersed and asked, "You aren't angry are you?" while looking up at him sheepishly, he could do nothing but pull her into a corner and kiss her until they were both breathless and she was smiling as broadly as he.

But that was six months ago. Now, _tonight_, was their wedding night. "Oh, Maker…" he murmured, quickening his pace. Its official, he thought, I'm pathetic. He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of the wedding – anything! – but the moment at hand.

She had looked amazing. More than amazing. Gorgeous. Stunning. Resplendent. He ran out of adjectives. When they had opened the big doors and the end of the hall, revealing her standing there, he couldn't breathe. The white and gold gown hugged all her curves and revealed tantalizing bits of her creamy white skin. Her golden hair was twisted and pinned up elegantly, and a golden circlet rested on her brow. A bouquet of red roses rested in her hands. She would tell him later, to his delight, that she had demanded roses. They tried giving her lilies but she would have none of it.

She hadn't looked at him at all while Arl Eamon walked her slowly down the long hall, the same where she had announced her loyalty those months ago. She smiled and those assembled instead, especially their traveling companions. Wynne had given her a small bow. Leliana had her hands clutched to her mouth, practically bouncing with excitement. Zevran had winked and blown her a kiss. Alistair would have rolled his eyes at this had he seen it, but he only had eyes for Miriel.

Finally, _finally, _she'd stood before him, and he watched her slowly raise her head and meet his eyes, a small wry smile on her lips. Her eyes glittered with unfathomable emotion. For his part, he'd just grinned like a fool.

The feast after the ceremony was agonizing. There he'd had to greet everyone and look kingly and share his wife with others. She was infinitely better at such social affairs than he was. She smiled graciously at everyone and touched their hands and asked about so-and-so and flapped her skirts affably at the children present. Everyone loved her. And everyone wanted to meet her. He followed her around like a large golden bodyguard, or maybe a dog, he thought, occasionally resting his hand at the small of her back, or capturing her fingers with his. Whenever he did so she would catch his eye and smile and his bones would melt.

At last most of the guests had left, moving the celebrations to the city taverns. Oghren was being carried out by Sten and a guard. Alistair had amused himself during the revelry by counting the mugs that the dwarf put away. He had eventually lost count.

He had been left in their rooms while Miriel was hustled off by her ladies to who knows where. Left alone and as nervous as that first night he had asked her to join him in his tent.

Alistair jumped when he heard the door to their sitting room open and shut. His armor was immediately too tight, and his stomach flopped over on itself. He swore he could hear that damnable bed laughing at him. The knob turned, and his queen slipped into the room, bolting the door and leaning back against it.

She took one look at him and laughed, but gently, with a smile in her eyes. "Oh, Alistair…look at you! You would truly rather face a hundred darkspawn than me! I won't eat you, you know!"

He relaxed, grinning. She knew him too well. "No, I'd say a _thousand_ darkspawn," he drawled. "But I must admit, they probably wouldn't look as ravishing in a dress as you do." His grin turned wolfish. "And you say you won't eat me _now…_"

Miriel rolled her eyes and sauntered up to him, stretching up to lay a light kiss on his lips. He bent and rested his forehead against hers, sighing quietly.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, drawing her gently against him. Then he frowned.

"I can feel nothing in this thrice-blasted armor! I say my dearest, care to help me out of it?"

Her fingers were already working the buckles but she said, "Oh, I don't know. Clinging to cold and pointy bits of metal is so lovely don't you think!"

He was tugging at his gauntlets. "You may be right. Plus I need all the protection I can get against _you._ For when you try to devour me and all."

The offending armor was placed carefully in the corner, as not to damage the burnished gold. Alistair was left in a fine white tunic and trousers, trimmed with gold.

"Look!" he said, mimicking Leliana. "We match! Oh how _lovely_!"

His wife rolled her eyes again at his antics. She still wore her wedding dress, but her hair had been let down. It flowed around her shoulders and down her back like a golden halo, softly curling. How could this creature ever have been a fierce warrior woman? He knew not. He loved both though, the woman and the warrior within.

He took her hand in one of his one and gave a sweeping gesture with the other. "So my queen, welcome to the royal bedchambers! I shall give you a tour since you have been forced away from me all these nights." Yet another downside of living at court…the _rules._

He circled slowly around the room, sending her laughing again with his descriptions of the pictures hanging upon the wall. Morose old men stared down at them.

_Stop dawdling Alistair_, he said to himself.

"And here!" he swept her around to face the gigantic bed. "We have the absolute largest bed in the kingdom! Now, I have many plans for this grand piece of furniture tonight!" He waggled his eyebrows at her.

She arched one of hers at him. "Oh really my lord? Such as?"

"Well. I thought we could start out first by jumping on it. It's such a perfect bed for jumping you know. And then we could have a pillow fight. With real down pillows too! The feathers will be everywhere! And then we could stay up late and tell stories!"

"Alistair…"

"No don't worry! We'll have them bring up a cheese tray, I've already thought of that."

"Alistair!"

He grinned at her. "Yes my heart? Did you have another…activity in mind?"

His wife batted her eyelashes at him and nodded once, slightly.

"Oh! Well in that case…"

He trailed off, pulling her to him and molding his mouth over hers. Her mouth is so soft against his. And this kiss…this kiss is not like all the others. It is the first kiss a man gives to the woman he can now call his wife. It is hot and searing and _branding_. He deepens it, and when her mouth opens in a sigh he slides his tongue in. Maker, she tastes like strawberries and honey…his tongue dances with hers, slides along her teeth. _You are mine,_ he thinks. _My wife. My Queen._ His fingers are tangled in her hair. One hand slides along her jaw, her neck. It traces the delicate arches of her collar bones before sweeping around to glide down her spine. Her silken dress is smooth under his fingers.

Her hands are on him too. She grasps the short hair at the nape of his neck, holding him to her, pressing her lips against his eager mouth. He shivers as her other hand slides under his tunic, gliding up the rippling muscles of his back and growls low in his throat when it slides to the front, causing his stomach to twitch and clench with her feather-light touch. Alistair breaks away from her mouth, tilting her head to suck on the flesh below her ear. Small, breathy sighs escape her as he nibbles along the rim of her ear and down her jaw.

He is hungry for her now. All the nervousness is gone, replaced by white hot desire. This is his Miriel. Hey, we've met before.

The need to see her drove him to step back, panting. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, her pupils dilated. His hands were on her neck now, which seemed so fragile between his palms. He slid them down, brushing the fabric from her shoulders and pushed it till it gathered at her hips. Stepping close, his nose at her ear, he eased it down further, till it puddled on the floor at her ankles. Her breasts are bare against his chest, small and round and perfect. He slides his palm up the plane of her flat stomach to cup one, marveling in the smoothness of her skin. His thumb sweeps across her nipple, which tightens at his touch. Miriel is quivering beneath his hands, twitching beneath his wandering fingertips.

His fingers drift downward again, brushing against something lacy. He draws his head back.

"Hmm what's this? Trying to keep me out? Such a flimsy little scrap of material won't do a very good job I think…"

Alistair's fingers hook in the waistband of these lacy smallclothes, drawing them down her legs. He traveled with his hands, sinking down, trailing kisses along her breasts, her stomach, and across her hip.

She drew a quavering breath. "I thought you might like them."

He was standing again, reveling in her nakedness, fingers skating across every inch of her and lavishing attention on her breasts.

"Oh I like them very much indeed. But I like them even more when they're not…on…you."

Between the last words he was placing feathery kisses on her open mouth. His love seemed in a daze, eyes half closed, breathing labored, skin shivering. As he smiled against her mouth she seemed to come alive again. _The warrior comes out to play_, he thought.

She pushed against him, her hands flat against his chest, gaining space. Demanding, she forced his arms up above his head, and drew his tunic up over them, leaving his chest bare. Her fingers danced along his chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake. It was his turn to quiver beneath the touch of his lover as her hands smoothed over the defined lines of muscle. He was hard and tense all over now, his erection straining against the laces of his trousers. She was behind him, coaxing his arms up so she could watch the play of muscles under his skin. Alistair tried to control the noises in his throat when her lips skimmed along his back.

"I love you." She murmured against his trembling skin.

He was unprepared when she reached a hand around and stroked his bourgeoning arousal. His breath was sucked back in through his teeth with a hiss and a groan, as his hips involuntarily bucked against her stroking fingers.

"Maker woman…."

He spun around, stilling her fingers with her own, instead directing them to the laces of his trousers. _That_ could wait till later.

Nimble fingers made quick work of the laces, and she locked eyes with him as she eased the cloth over him, guiding it down his thighs. He kicked them away and pressed his naked flesh against hers.

Nothing compared to this. He crushed her to him, face buried in her neck, feeling all her feminine curves against him, her breath hot in his ear. For a moment he simply held her, stroking her back and whatever else he could reach. Then, slowly, he walked them back toward the waiting bed. She lay back when her knees touched the bed, but still he hovered over her, moving ever upward till her head rested among the pillows.

Still supporting himself on his hands and knees, he seared hot kisses along her jaw and neck. Shifting lower, his lips darted around one breast, circling closer and closer to the center as her breathing grew heavy below him. With a glance up at her, he took the puckered nipple into his mouth wetly, drawing it against his teeth with his tongue. At this, Miriel moaned soft and low and he thrilled at the sound. He continued his ministrations to the sound of her breathy pants, soon switching to lave her other breast with his tongue. With one last chaste, close-lipped kiss he moved lower again, licking a trail down her ribs and one hip. He nips along the bone with his teeth where it juts out against her skin slightly. Her breathing was ragged now; he knows he dodges around the place she most wants him to be. Ignoring this, his tongue and hands skim all the way down one long leg, and back up the other.

Moving over her, supporting himself on an elbow, he returned his mouth to hers, but his fingers continued to ghost along her abdomen and thighs. She was almost quiet now, kissing him hotly, and almost desperately. She squirmed beneath his roving fingers, her hands trying to find purchase on his sweaty skin. Slowly, so slowly, he drifted his hand up along her inner thigh. The skin is extra soft there, his thumb moves in slow circles to stroke it. Her quivering legs fell apart and she whimpered against his mouth. With his index finger he stroked upward between her folds, barely brushing the delicate nub at their apex. He delighted in how moist she already was; her heat against his hand was maddening. His lips brushed tiny kisses along her jaw. She had a death grip on his hair.

This movement he repeated once, twice, three times, before carefully slipping a finger into her. Her hips moved against his hand, and he moved with her, enraptured at the feel of her. For several minutes he delved into her as she mewled and quivered below him. Internally, he was torn. There was something he wanted to try, but it was bold, so bold…

He suddenly withdrew from her, much to her dismay, and settled down between her thighs. She went very tense beneath him, much more so than before, if that was possible.

He looked up at her hooded green eyes. "So there's been something I've been wanting to try…"

Miriel's head fell back against the pillows. "Oh yes, Alistair. Please, yes." She said breathily.

Much closer than he had ever been, Alistair took a moment to look at his wife. Like a flower, she bloomed before him. _Like a rose_, a thought that pleased him infinitely. Dipping his head, he hesitantly tasted her. Her back arched as she moaned, her fingers twisted in the sheet, toes curling. He did it again, drawing his tongue against her folds, then flicking it against the sensitive mound. Her hips bucked beneath him.

"_Alistair…_" The sound of her voice moaning his name was too much.

He flew back to her mouth, the heady taste of her still on his tongue. Their hands were everywhere at once. Alistair was drowning in her, the taste, the smell, the feel of her; he felt like he was going to explode. He could think of nothing, _feel_ nothing, but the hot and aching pressure that seared through his core. Gripping her hips, he pushed himself into her, enveloping himself in her warmth and wetness. Maker, he was going to die…he couldn't _breathe. _Gasping, he moved over her, setting a rhythm akin to his beating heart. Vaguely he could hear her moans, the repeated breathing of his name from her lips, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. He clung to her, eyes clamped shut, face buried in her hair.

They moved together, each of his thrusts adding to the immense pressure. He was on fire. They were on fire. The whole bloody room was on fire. The flames licked against his skin, and he ground into her to put them out. And finally, when he thought he could take no more, he _felt_ her tremor beneath him, around him, as she clenched, the wave of her passion bearing her away. He wanted to follow, and the seizing of her walls coaxed him along until he too was nothing but a blazing arrow shot from a fiery bow. He distantly heard himself, "_IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou."_

With the coming of his climax any strength left in him vanished, and he collapsed on Miriel, their sweaty limbs sliding over one another. Alistair lay there, reeling, gasping, as up became up again and down stayed down. He weakly lifted his head, turning toward the gleam of her jaw in the half-light. She was gazing back at him, radiant, basking in the afterglow. Still inside her, he rolled, carrying her with him till her head rested on his chest. They lay for a while, trying to calm the wild beating of their hearts.

It was Miriel who finally stirred, arching her neck up and placing a kiss on his mouth.

"Well I think that was _much_ better than a pillow fight."

And though the night was long, they somehow never made it to telling stories.


End file.
